


The Afterlives Snippets

by irisbleufic



Category: Neverwhere - All Media Types, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-17
Updated: 2008-02-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man can learn many things from a brush with death—if he so <i>chooses</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Price of Debt

**Author's Note:**

> This is the eternally-in-progress _Neverwhere_ sequence that I'll probably never finish.

The worst part about it, de Carabas reflected, wasn't even the scar. Scars _plural_ , to be precise. The Black Friars were amongst the finest healers in London Below, true, but there wasn't much you could do for a slit throat beyond a stringent cleaning and some thorough stitching. As for the rest of his scars, well, nobody ever saw those, so who really gave a toss?

Not the Marquis, as he was currently on a rooftop getting really, _truly_ smashed. Beside him, Old Bailey hiccupped thoughtfully and tossed another empty gin bottle over his shoulder.

" _Have_ you forgotten?" he repeated, nudging de Carabas gently with his elbow.

"Hmmm?" asked de Carabas, jerking out of the half-doze into which he'd drifted. There might actually be something to the loveliness of nightingale song, although he wasn't about to say that aloud.

"About the shoeses and gloveses," Old Bailey said, almost petulant. "You owes me."

 _I owe you more than bloody practicalities_ , thought de Carabas, clearing his throat—which didn't hurt anymore, although he'd acquired the annoying habit of running his fingers over the smooth, uneven-running scar when it happened to be uncovered. He rummaged around behind the brick ledge on which they were sitting and found another bottle of gin. Expensive stuff, bought expressly for the present purpose with his first pay advance from Lady Door, the Duchess of Arch. Having regular income would take some getting used to, but the intrigue—and Richard's bewilderment at suddenly finding himself all at once a Duke and noble consort—would never get old.

"Oh," he said, finally, and opened the new bottle. "Those. I'm afraid I was a bit too, you know, _deceased_ at the last market to remember to pick them up."

"But there's been three markets since that one," Old Bailey pointed out, reaching for the bottle.

The Marquis held it just beyond his reach, helping himself to a generous pull before handing it over. "And I haven't _been_ to any of them because you've _kept_ me holed up on this God-forsaken roof."

"You ain't been in no shape for shopping," said Old Bailey, defensively. "Got to get you back in sorts an' all that. Lady Door's right lucky I lets you make appearances at court, she is."

"You do realize," said de Carabas, fixing Old Bailey with an unsteady look, "that I've got a job to do, and that if I don't get started in earnest before the month is out, her Royal Archness will begin to wonder?"

"What's she got you after, then?"

Swiping back the bottle, the Marquis said simply, "Her sister."

"I thought they was all killed."

"Doesn't look like it. That git Islington had the brat ferried off somewhere…safe."

Old Bailey tilted his head. "You got some leads as to where, don't you?"

"Perhaps," replied de Carabas, and shrugged. "It's classified information."

"You wouldn't be back in tip-top shape if not for me."

"And the Black Friars. We mustn't forget those noble sods— _souls_ —that go about the Lord's work." The Marquis hiccupped, wondering how many bottles he'd drunk. That hadn't come out properly at _all_.

"What Lord? The Underside's got lots o' those."

"You know," said de Carabas, waving one hand at the stars. "God."

"I ain't thought about Him for decades," said Old Bailey, consolingly. "Me wife was always on about His Mercy an' all that, _well_ , fat load o' good that did her while she still lived and breathed. Me, my faith's in birds. They knows what's what."

The Marquis had the very strong urge to face-plant into something, but seeing as he hadn't yet bothered to risk another trip into the Shepherds' territory to find that _terrifying_ old bush-witch who'd fixed him up with that egg in the first place…

"Birds," he muttered. "It was a duck's, wasn't it?"

"That egg? You bet. Mighty fine one, too. Gives me the shivers, just thinkin' about what was done to shove your life inside."

The Marquis turned his head and blinked. Old Bailey looked more of a feathered fright than usual, but that's because the world had gone rather tipsy and blurred.

"You mean you _know_ what—"

"No, but I can guess. I don't want you goin' into no Shepherds' Bush, you understand me? That place is no good. I hear they eats anybody as wanders in, and…" Old Bailey went slightly teary-eyed, fumbling between them for de Carabas's hand. "Don't you go!"

The Marquis freed his hand, then patted Old Bailey perfunctorily on the shoulder.

"There, there. I've come out alive once. Odds are quite favorable I'll survive it again."

"You ain't got that luxury no more," said Old Bailey, darkly and _very_ drunkenly.

However, he _did_ manage to give de Carabas pause.

"It's dangerous work I'll be doing for Lady Door," said the Marquis, carefully. "You _do_ realize that, yes?" As to whether he was talking to Old Bailey or to himself, well…

"I'm not no idiot," muttered Old Bailey, getting up from their perch with some difficulty. "Don't want no more o' your silly gin. Go flyin' without wings for all I care, just you go an' leave me hanging wiv' no—"

 _Bloody buggering hell_ , thought de Carabas, and stood up. Fortunately, he staggered a full three paces backward instead of forward. "Listen," he said, holding up one finger and wagging it in what he had thought to be Old Bailey's general direction, only to find that Old Bailey was already halfway to the (rather impressive, for what it was) new hut he'd built in the corner where his ramshackle tent had once been. Otherwise, he'd not have been able to house the ancient bed he'd somehow procured for the purpose of seeing to the remainder of the Marquis's convalescence.

"While I appreciate your concern _and_ your hospitality," he said, staggering after Old Bailey into the oil-lit, feather-strewn hut, "I can't sit around and drink your tea and listen to your blessed birds forever. I've got _work_ to do."

"How d'you 'spect to work when you've got a hangover?" asked Old Bailey, impressively pointedly for as intoxicated as he was. As they _both_ were.

"I haven't gotten that far," said de Carabas, "because you won't _let_ me!"

His shout cut the still, stuffy air between them and settled into startled silence.

"I'm losing my mind," said de Carabas, at length, and sank onto the bed, which was only six inches behind him. "Just imagine: a life as treacherous and exciting as mine reduced to bed-rest, factional loyalty, and daily lessons in avian dialects."

"Imagine a life as pathetic an' boring as mine put to some _use_ ," Old Bailey murmured, blowing out the nearest oil-lamp. "And none o' your beak!" he shouted in the direction of the nearest window.

"What did he say?" asked the Marquis, and then wished he hadn't.

Enough moonlight filtered in to let him see that Old Bailey was turning rather pink.

"Nuffing," he muttered, tossing a ratty old blanket at de Carabas. "You needs your rest."

 _It's a shame I can't work out which of us is Cain and which of us is Abel_ , thought the Marquis, picking the blanket off his head and replacing it with the ratty pillow.

"Good night, Old Bailey, my friend," he mumbled into the home-gathered down.

"That was almost perfect Nightingale, that was!"

" _Do_ be quiet," hissed de Carabas, suddenly understanding the nature of his second chance all too clearly, "and let's just _see_ who ends up with that hangover."

Unfortunately, Old Bailey was already snoring—which was, indeed, far worse than _any_ scar.


	2. The Good Life

The Marquis decided that his first requirement would be several apartments of his own, none of them at a fixed location—or, indeed, plottable—within the palace. Lady Door's brow had furrowed only for a moment, at which point she'd whispered to some denizen of London Below that the Marquis was _certain_ he should have known, but didn't, who scurried off bowing and nodding. Door graciously asked that he allow three months for their completion. He appeared to have little other choice.

Old Bailey didn't seem too disturbed by the prospect of the Marquis staying on just a _bit_ longer. The Marquis cursed his fickle fortune and resigned himself to another sixty days' worth of smart-arsed birdsong—the odd night spent in pub or gutter, of course, not included.

His second requirement was land. _Lots_ of it. With the rooms completed, he was getting restless.

"I'm afraid we can't give you that," said Richard, his brow furrowed in poor imitation of his wife's. "I don't think the Shepherds consider themselves answerable to _anyone_ anymore, much less the House of Arch."

"Pity," de Carabas said, sipping his tokay thoughtfully. "The Blackfriars' domain, then—what's to become of them, seeing as their one and only purpose in life has been wrested from them by your lovely wife?"

Richard blushed profusely and pretended de Carabas hadn't asked. "Surely one of the Arch adjunct territories would be—"

"That's just the thing: while I've got a base of operations here at court, I don't fancy being your _neighbor_. I'd never hear the end of _your_ end of the royal marital squabbles, would I?"

Richard sighed. "Until Door gets back, I'm really afraid I can't—"

"Pity," de Carabas said. "I've made some in-roads, one might say, in a certain missing person's case."

"Really?" Richard asked, suddenly giving the Marquis his full attention.

"Really," said the Marquis, smiling nonchalantly. "Now, about Shepherds' Bush. You see..."

Later that night, Old Bailey asked how the Marquis intended to assert his authority over people with hygiene almost as bad as the sewer-folk and strange ideas about what—or _who_ , as the case may be—constituted supper.

De Carabas grinned slowly, tossing the newly-signed parchment charter from hand to hand.

"I have no idea," he admitted, "but the girl's in there somewhere, and it's bound to be bloody interesting."

Much though he would have liked to have come, Old Bailey insisted he had best stay home and mind the birds.

"Your loss," said de Carabas, snapping the silver box shut. He tucked it in his pocket for safekeeping.


	3. Devil May Care

...and although he may, the Marquis reflects, on behalf of an old cheat like himself? The Devil probably has better things to do, such as making sure Old Bailey doesn't fall off his rooftop, or spontaneously forget the King's English in favor of hoot-and-holler birdsong. The monthly meetings for afternoon tea are bad enough; most recently, Old Bailey had whistled instead of asking him to pass the sugar.

And, oddly enough, the Marquis has better things to do with _his_ time than wonder if the Devil's looking out for him. Like taking tea at the palace on the days he's not taking tea with Old Bailey, kowtowing to Lady Door and that foolish, yet strangely _likeable_ boy she's taken for a husband. At least he can count on the court for proper conversation. Gossip has been in short supply, though—for that, he begrudgingly admits that Old Bailey has a corner on the market.

The Devil's care, therefore, is strictly irrelevant. But the Marquis has to admit he wouldn't mind it now and again, especially where the procurement of another magic egg is concerned. Maybe the trick is learning bird-speak after all...


	4. Ballerina

_Dancer_ , Richard thinks, propping himself up in bed, watching Door from across the vaulted chamber. _She moves like a dancer and she has no bloody idea, does she?_ So graceful, so still, even when she's not motionless.

Meanwhile, oblivious, Door goes about her evening routine: pendant off, wrist-bangle off, dip to tug off her mother's old silk shoes. She straightens her spine again in one fluid movement, and the light glints off her hair, which has become long-ish of late, unruly.

Richard had never realized before that it was wavy, not straight. 

_Which of her parents gave her that?_ he wonders.

Something about the shift in his mood, maybe the way he's stopped breathing, causes Door to turn and look at him abruptly, her pale profile frozen in the vanity mirror behind her for one perfect instant. As always, her smile is as devastating as the sun.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asks softly, thin lips upturned with fragile hope. 

Richard says nothing and holds out his arms. "Dance with me."

Door's smile widens, and in a flash— _reddish hair blue-gray-violet eyes white flesh_ —she's there. Richard kisses her mouth slowly, softly.

Willingly, he'll burn in it.


	5. Revolving Doors

_Get out of here, girl, and let us get down to business_.

The Marquis chews on the tip of his finger, waiting. It's not so much that they're in love, he thinks, not really. It's the _way_ they're in love: that sickly-sweet, nauseatingly fragile spark that seems to flare every time they touch. Door and Richard; Richard and Door. Revolving, always trading places, eyes constantly locked, hands never apart. Except when the Lady retires, of course, and grants the gentlemen leave to take drinks and a smoke.

"Good night." Door's voice is a silvery whisper, then gone.

Richard looks either lost or relieved; the Marquis can't be sure.

"Penny for your thoughts, my Lord?" he asks Richard, permitting his voice a hint of sarcasm.

"Well, I—" Richard falters, turning to face him with a sheepish grin. "I'm still taking it all in, as it were. Adjusting and all that. How long have I been here, anyway? It feels like half a lifetime."

"Three weeks, ten hours, and thirty-seven minutes," replies the Marquis, offering him a Cuban cigar.

Richard crosses the room and accepts it, turning the object over in his hands as if he's never seen one before in his life. 

"I don't really smoke. But if it's customary..."

"In your world, not for a century or more," says the Marquis, taking it back off him and trimming the end efficiently with his knife. "In this world, it never went out of fashion. And if it does, I shall have something to say about it. Here," he added, sticking the cigar between his teeth and lighting it with the same efficiency. He handed it back over to Richard, grinning. One puff and the boy was coughing.

"It tastes...sweet," Richard admitted, once his eyes had stopped watering. "Like grass, maybe. Or earth."

"All of the above," the Marquis tells him, winking, and gets down to business with his own cigar. His last, to be precise, but Old Bailey, that clever bird-brained bastard, can always get him some more. He gestures Richard closer, leaning in as if to impart some wisdom.

Richard, as earnest as he is, complies beautifully.

"Next you'll be telling me you've never had a sip of decent whisky," says the Marquis, provocatively. The result, he finds, is pure and undiluted—if somewhat awkward, and so very _Richard_ —Scots indignation.

Richard is red-faced: not with rage, but with the force of his blushing.

"Of _course_ I have. Don't be ridiculous."

"Not _this_ decent," the Marquis tells him, and pulls away again, all businesslike efficiency as he fills the glasses before him on the table.

They're in for a long night of negotiations concerning this territory and that, at least some of the ones now under Richard's command—and, if the Marquis has anything to say about it, they're both going to enjoy it. _Thoroughly_.


End file.
